


And If It's Crazy (and It Is)...

by FISHnibWana



Series: You Run With Me [2]
Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: And It's Not the One Phillip Signed Up For, And Most of His Brain and Dignity, And Serious Family Feels, Anne Wheeler Has Stolen Phillip's Heart, F/M, Gen, Here Be the Beginnings of CarWheeler, No Slash, P.T. Barnum Has a Job for Phillip, Phillip Is Part of a Very Strange Bet, So Does Phillip's Costume, The Top Hat and Cane Get Some Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-08-22 02:55:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16589486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FISHnibWana/pseuds/FISHnibWana
Summary: Phillip Carlyle attends his first circus rehearsal. For various reasons, it's almost his last.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Phillip debates going to rehearsal, and P.T. and Anne give him no choice.

“You gonna watch us today?”

Phillip’s head jerks up. Circus posters are sprawled over his desk in a bewildering array of colours, but suddenly they don’t seem so beguiling. Anne stands in the office doorway, glittering in her purple sequined costume. One eyebrow has climbed elegantly up to her hairline. “Uh,” he utters. “I…what?”

“Rehearsal.” That eyebrow mocks him, but there is also a hint of interest, of curiosity. “We start in ten.”

  
“Oh.” He fumbles with the pen in his hand. “I – I don’t know if I…”

  
Barnum strides in. Phillip does a double-take because, good _God_ , what is the man wearing? “I’ll be right there, Anne,” Barnum says, as if he takes it for granted that she’s here for him. He reaches his desk and opens drawers, lifts papers, looks under his chair. “Have you seen my cane?”

  
Anne stifles a laugh, and Phillip is struck all over again by the affection that tinges every look and word the performers direct at Barnum. “I don’t know, Barnum,” she shoots back, planting her hands on her hips. “Where did you last see it?”

  
“In the costume room. I know someone took it, but no one will admit –” Barnum turns, and Anne is holding it out, a smile on her face. He breaks out in a relieved grin. “You’re a gem,” he says, taking it with a quick peck to her cheek. Phillip wishes he could be that bold. “How did you get it back?”

  
“You don’t wanna know.” Anne nods curtly at Phillip. “See you there, Swell?”

  
His mouth opens and closes soundlessly. Without waiting for a reply, Anne exits the office in a whirl of purple.

  
“She’s beautiful.” Realising what he has just said, Phillip quickly amends, “Ah, her costume, her costume, it’s…gorgeous.”

  
“It’s better than what it was.” Barnum twirls his cane. He’s looking at his apprentice with a knowing twinkle in his eye. “I’m going to make a couple more alterations to it, though; I’m still not happy with the way the train falls.”

  
“You…” Phillip blinks, shaken out of his daze. “You made that?”

  
Barnum shrugs, and for once Phillip actually thinks the modesty is genuine. “I grew up a tailor’s boy,” he says. “I couldn’t look at the rags Anne brought with her and not make a few suggestions.”

  
That costume is not a suggestion. It’s a blazing declaration that the woman wearing it is stunning and talented and all kinds of amazing. “I’m…impressed,” is all Phillip finds to say. And then, “Did you make all the costumes?”

  
“Most of them.” Barnum shrugs again and is back in motion, all tight black pants and long leather boots. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

  
“We…?”

  
“Of course.” Barnum grabs his shoulders and steers him away from his desk. Phillip barely manages to toss his pen down on top of the posters. “You’re my apprentice. Can’t have you neglecting the most important part of the business.”

  
Phillip wants to say that he will not be focused on business with Anne Wheeler nearby dressed in a leotard. But he keeps his mouth shut.

  
As they reach their destination, Barnum calling out to dawdling performers as they arrive, Phillip can’t help the surge of excitement in his belly. He’s long been curious about the circus, but he never deigned – or dared – to actually attend a show. Now he’s going to get a front-row seat. It’s thrilling, in that forbidden, Barnum way.

  
Barnum lets go of him at the edge of the ring and carries on, making straight for the bearded lady. An appreciative whistle cuts the air as he passes, quickly followed by a smattering of friendly, leering laughter. Barnum waves it off. Apparently his costumed physique has been…noted…before now.

  
“Two minutes, Barnum,” the bearded lady jibes, holding out a silky red coat with a golden _B_ embroidered on each sleeve. “You’re cutting it closer every time.”

  
“I know, I know, Lettie.” Barnum shrugs into the coat, an absolutely scandalous affair that somehow makes him look even taller. “Someone took my cane. That makes the third time this…Tom! Tom, I need to talk to you!”

  
He’s off again, and Phillip finds himself feeling slightly dizzy. He catches Lettie watching him. “Is he always this crazy?” he ventures to ask.

  
“Crazy?” Lettie huffs a laugh. “Rehearsal hasn’t even started yet, Carlyle.”

  
“Where does he get his energy?”

  
She comes over and takes his arm, and he lets her steer him to the bottom tier of one of the stands. “Same place he gets his ideas, I guess,” she says, gently pushing him down. “Relax and enjoy the show. You look like you’ve been working too hard.”

  
“Harder than I’ve ever worked in my life.” The admission falls half-ashamed from his lips as he braces his elbows on his knees. “But it’s good. I feel like…like…” He grasps for words and fails.

  
“I know.” Lettie fixes him with a look, for the first time conveying the barest hint of something like affection. It’s not quite the same as what they give Barnum, but it’s the inauguration of his own version, and a surge of gratitude wells in his chest. “That’s how we all feel.”

  
Then she glances over at Barnum, resplendent in his crimson coat. “He pushes himself too hard, between the show and his family. Having you here will be good for him. It’ll be good for _us_.”

  
“Okay, places, everyone!” Barnum’s voice booms out over the ring, and just like that the unruly performers are all scrambling for their spots. “We’re going to practise with the lions. Humphrey, Jack, are you ready?”

  
Lions?

  
Phillip looks at Lettie. “New act,” she winks, and then she’s off.

  
Barnum has produced a top hat from somewhere, emblazoned with the words _Prince of Humbug_ , and with that bit of obscure poetry on his head he cues the band. They leap into life. And so does the circus.

  
Instantly Barnum is a dervish, belting notes as he dances that flood Phillip’s opera-weary soul. Phillip looks up to the rafters, and Anne is soaring spectacularly through the air, caught with expert precision by W.D.’s hands. He stares at her while the other performers cavort below. His heart leaps into his throat with every flip, thinking she has to fall, but she never does, she always flies.

  
He finally manages to tear his gaze away. As he does so Barnum hits the ground and spins on his knees, one, two, three, _four_ times, and then he’s up, striking the ground with his cane, and all sound and motion fall sharply away.

  
The lights go out.

  
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Barnum’s voice is low and rich. He begins to pace slowly, purposefully around the inner edge of the ring. “Prepare to be dazzled by a spectacle beyond your wildest dreams.”

  
Phillip’s breath catches. It’s just an act, he knows that. But Barnum’s voice, his stance, his _presence_ fill the arena and transport him to another world. He leans forward, hands gripping the bench. His palms sweat.

  
“From the plains of Africa…” Barnum passes Phillip on his circuit, his head lowered, finger and thumb gripping the brim of his hat. Phillip could be wrong, but Barnum appears to shoot him a sly look. “The magnificent, the sensational…Welcome…” He stops, whirls, throws his arms out. “The king of the jungle!” he thunders, and the lights burst into life with a roar.

  
Phillip almost wets himself.

  
Humphrey and Jack jog into the ring, escorting two muscular male lions between them. Some of the performers look nervous, but they hold fast, their faith in Barnum unwavering. Barnum darts over and places himself between the lions. His whole face has lit up. Phillip can’t help reciprocating. Real lions. Real _bloody_ lions. Did he actually almost say no to this?

  
Barnum spends a good fifteen minutes showing them off to imaginary audience members, gesturing and spinning and bowing. It’s a treat to watch. The lion-tamers know their business and so does Barnum. The lions perform trick after trick, not showing the least inclination to eat anything not thrown to them. The stress of helping run a circus drains off Phillip’s shoulders. He follows Lettie’s advice and enjoys himself, laughing with every insane antic Barnum pulls off.

  
And then the act takes a whole different turn.

  
“And now, ladies and gentlemen.” Barnum swivels in place, panning the imaginary crowd with his cane. “Before their Majesties leave us for the evening, they wish to pay their respects to one very lucky member of the audience.” He looks at Phillip, and there’s something positively diabolical in his expression.

  
Before Phillip can think, or blink, or breathe, the lion-tamers give a command. The lions and Barnum charge and leap the barrier in unison. Barnum hits his knees, slides, and ends up two feet from Phillip. With one impossibly smooth motion he gets to his feet, stopping with the end of his cane an inch from Phillip’s chest, his other hand flung out behind him.

  
The lions halt on either side of him. They rear. Roar.

  
Phillip falls back, banging his elbows on the tier behind him. The pain is irrelevant. There are…lions. And _Barnum_. He swallows, his gaze sliding slowly up to Barnum’s face. The man is flushed, sweat trickling down his temples, chest heaving. He looks _ecstatic_.

  
“Well?” he finally gasps. “What do you think?”

  
“I think…” Phillip catches his breath. “I think you’re going to have to warn people with heart conditions.”

  
Barnum’s grin widens. That’s exactly what he wants to hear.

  
“One more time,” he shouts, turning and jogging back into the ring. “Lions offstage!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anne is cleverer than Phillip.

The rehearsal lasts three gruelling hours. If Phillip is exhausted sitting in the stands, he can’t imagine how the performers must feel. Barnum finally dismisses the troupe, snagging this one and that on their way out to offer praise and the occasional pointer. Phillip watches as the man mingles freely, laughing and chatting, teasing and being teased, and he feels something warm bloom in his chest. It’s like…family. He hasn’t felt this way since…

Well. Has he _ever_ felt this way?

It takes a while, but Barnum finally makes his way over, having ushered the last of the performers out. He’s drenched in sweat, beads dropping from his chin and brows and nose, his hair falling into his eyes. “Phillip,” he says cordially, as if he hasn’t just spent three hours dancing frantically in a tailcoat. He strips it off, laying it on the tier next to his apprentice, and follows it with the embroidered black vest. The silky white shirt underneath is plastered to his torso. He tugs at it with a grimace, and Phillip can’t help shaking his head.

“How do you perform in all that?” he questions. “You look ready to pass out.”

“I usually don’t wear it,” Barnum confesses, “not for rehearsals.” He wipes his dripping chin with his shoulder. “But once in a while…The costume changes the feel of the thing, you know?”

“Costume,” Phillip scoffs. “You look like you were born in that thing.”

Barnum’s face crinkles with a smile. He tosses Phillip the cane, and Phillip barely catches it, taken off guard.

After a few seconds, he knows what’s being offered. What he doesn’t know is how Barnum can read him so well.

“I don’t think so, Barnum.” Phillip tosses the cane back. “Next time.”

“You could walk out of here and get hit by a carriage.” Barnum tosses it back, and this time Phillip catches it neatly. “Live before you die, Phil.”

Phillip raises his eyebrows. No one, not even his parents or his brother, has ever given him a nickname. It’s always been proper Phillip. “Really, _P.T._ ,” he throws back along with the cane, “I didn’t know you were such a pessimist.”

Barnum takes off his hat and props it on Phillip’s head. Although it balances well, it feels too big for him somehow, too heavy on his temples. “Come on now,” the man cajoles. “You’re a quick study. Let me see how closely you were paying attention.” He dangles the cane enticingly.

Slowly, Phillip takes it. It’s solid and heavy, as smooth as Anne’s skin looks, and a deep ebony. “You hired me to bait the snobs,” he returns uncertainly. “Not dance around like a lunatic.”

  
“You could do both.”

  
Phillip smirks. “Clearly,” he drawls, “you don’t know what it takes to impress a snob.”

  
He hates himself as soon as he says the words. For God’s sake, he sounds like his father. But Barnum doesn’t falter. “Think I do,” he shoots back, bracing one foot dramatically on the edge of the tier. “I impressed _you_ , didn’t I?”

  
It’s a well-deserved hit. And true to boot. “I think I’ll pass,” Phillip says anyway. He thinks about one of the performers strolling back in, watching the new rich boy try to imitate their moves, and feels rather queasy. Which makes him wonder when his life became so empty that he craves acceptance at the _circus_.

  
“All right.” Barnum shrugs. Phillip has the uneasy feeling he’s been read like an open book, again. “We’ll work on loosening those stays of yours later. For now…” He winks, tipping a hat he no longer wears. “Put those away, will you?”

  
Coat and vest in hand, he saunters off.

  
Phillip shakes his head and gets to his feet. His rear has gone numb from sitting for so long, and as he stretches his spine crackles testily. He turns to go, lifting the hat off his head with a grimace. No, it doesn’t really fit him very well.

  
“Hey, Swell. Don’t go.”

  
He jerks around, tilting his face to the rafters. He hears the creak of a rope, and Anne swoops into the ring from one of the upper balconies, dropping fearlessly through the twenty or so feet. She hits the ground and trots to a stop, steadying herself with the rope.

  
Phillip tries desperately to remember how to banter. But what comes so naturally with Barnum eludes him with Anne. He finds himself running the brim of the top hat nervously through his fingers. She really _is_ beautiful. And not wearing very much. And there’s something, an undefinable but irresistible trait, that follows and precedes her like perfume.

She comes over, padding lightly across the sawdust-strewn floor. Her feet are bare except for the strips of cloth that provide added grip. She stops at the barrier, crossing her slender arms over her chest. “Glad you showed up, Carlyle,” she says.

  
“I, uh, didn’t have a choice.” _Uh_ has never yet made it into any of his play scripts. How then has it become an accepted convention of his speech? “He’s…that is, Barnum, is…”

  
Anne laughs, tossing her pink-wigged head lightly. “Yeah, he is,” she agrees fondly. She eyes him. “I see he left you his hat.”

  
“And his cane.” Phillip wants to give it the cocky twirl Barnum is so fond of, but he knows he will fail magnificently.

  
Anne taps one lovely foot a few times. “You know what that means, don’t you?” she asks at length.

  
“That I…have to put them away?”

  
“I don’t know.” Anne arches one brow, the way she did in the office, but this time it’s appraising. “He’s never done this before.”

  
Phillip shifts uncomfortably. Anne jerks her head. “Come on,” she says. “Might as well make good use of them. Just remember you’re holding Barnum’s heart and soul in your hands.”

  
“Which is which?” Phillip quips giddily, and actually wishes for a pistol. What the _hell_ is he _saying?_

  
But Anne’s lips twitch upward. “You really wanna find out?” she returns as he steps over the barrier.

  
No, he doesn’t. He’s not sure which would be worse: learning how Barnum punches or how he cries. “I’ll be careful,” he promises. “What are we doing?”

  
“What Barnum wanted you to do.” Anne stops in the centre of the ring, and he copies her. “Learning the ropes.”

  
He looks stupidly at the one she descended on. She gives it a strong yank and it zips upward, inexplicably removing itself from their presence. “Not today, Carlyle,” she retorts. “ _Pretty rich boy breaks his neck_ is not the headline Barnum is after.”

  
“I don’t know.” The words come out before Phillip can stop them. “It could be the name of a new act.”

  
Anne laughs, actually laughs, and now Phillip knows he will not be able to think coherently for at least five minutes. “One time only, though,” she teases. “You’re the businessman. Is that really worth it?”

  
He finds himself thinking that anything would be worth risking if he could fly with her once, just once. He puts the hat back on, pressing it down so it will stay on his head. “You’re going to teach me to dance?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound too wildly hopeful.

  
“Barnum seems to think you know how already.”

  
“He does?”

  
“He’s been raving about it. Says you’ve got the quickest feet he’s ever seen.” Anne smiles not-quite innocently. “Care to share how he might have learned that?”

  
He cannot, _cannot_ tell her he danced on a bar for P.T. Barnum. That fact resides on every possible level of wrong and hopefully will go with him to his grave. “Uh, he’s just very perceptive,” he mumbles. “Has an eye for talent, and all that.” He clears his throat, avoiding eye contact and trying to look perfectly casual about it.

  
And failing. “Relax, Carlyle.” Anne stands next to him, putting a good five feet between them. “I didn’t know it was that embarrassing. First things first,” she adds, mercifully changing the subject. “The stretch.”

  
She bends over fluidly, her legs perfectly straight. Her head stops in front of her knees as if she is kissing them. Phillip stands stunned. The fact that he is incapable of that kind of flexibility is only his second concern. His first is that she must _know_ what she’s doing to him. His mouth is bone-dry and he can’t, he cannot _think_ while she is…

  
She turns her head, and oh yes, she definitely knows what she’s doing. “Care to join me?” she asks, her cheek pressed to one smooth shin. Phillip’s mouth opens, and a little whine comes out.

  
He cannot. He _cannot_ …

  
“I can’t,” he croaks. “I…uh…can’t…”

  
“Not yet, maybe.” Anne straightens up. “You will. Try this.” She sits on the ground and stretches out one toned leg, effortlessly grabbing her toes.

  
This he can do. They move through a series of stretches, each one progressively more difficult, until Phillip feels the burn in his untrained muscles. “I thought I was fit,” he gasps as he rubs the backs of his thighs gingerly. “This is horrible.”

  
“You’re not bad, for a China doll.” Anne smiles at him. “When you actually have to _use_ your muscles…”

  
Point taken. “You can’t tell me Barnum has to do this,” he grouses. “There’s no way.”

  
“Are you kidding? He’s the one who makes us.” Anne stands and dusts off the backs of her legs. “Except for the contortionists, he’s the most flexible person I know.”

  
She sees his disbelief. “Seriously,” she contends, as if his dubiety offends her. “He can even bend over backward and walk on his hands and feet. Like this.” She demonstrates, shorting out a good fifty percent of Phillip’s speech capacity as she does so. It’s a startling display of grace, but it does not help him see how Barnum, well over six feet and built like a brick wall, can do the same. In any case, he’s well aware that he makes a good target for falsehoods.

  
“If you say so,” he says as she rights herself. “But I think I’ll have to see it to believe it.”

  
“Then you’ve come to the right place.” Anne looks at him from under her lashes. “Make it a bet?”

  
He has no idea what to propose. Anne is not rich, and he desperately wants not to embarrass her. “O – okay,” he stutters. “How – how much?”

  
“Oh, that’s boring.” Anne waves it off. “You’re not getting off with paying money.”

  
He barely has time to think _oh crap_ before she adds, “Let’s make it a dare.” She cocks her head in challenge. “You first, Swell.”

  
All he wanted to do was attend a rehearsal. “Um, if I'm right,” he hesitates, scrambling for a punishment that will not be too punishing, “you have to…” _Kiss me_ , he wants to say, he so badly wants to say it, and for a moment he has to physically bite his tongue. He does not want his lips to be associated with losing a bet. “Dance with Charles on a table,” he finishes, sounding lame even to his own ears.

  
Her lips curve up. “Okay,” she agrees immediately, sending a wash of liquid relief over his body. “And if I’m right, you have to hug Barnum at our next rehearsal and tell him how grateful you are for bringing you here. For thirty seconds. For everyone to hear. And I’ll be timing.”

  
The relief turns to ice on his body. His jaw falls down, nearly to his chest. “You…can’t be serious,” he says in disbelief. “I can’t do that.”

  
“Why not?” Anne is still grinning in that awful, beautiful, miserable way that means he’s doomed. “You don’t think he’ll like it?”

  
There’s no telling _what_ Barnum likes. And Phillip doesn’t want to know. Besides, he has no desire to find out exactly where his nose will hit Barnum’s chest. It’s embarrassing enough having to strain his neck just to make eye contact. Thirty seconds in Barnum’s arms will give everyone far too much time to commit Phillip’s lack of height to memory.

  
The upside, however, is this: he would never have to strain himself looking Barnum in the face again.

  
“Deal,” he says slowly, extending his hand. There’s no way she’s right. There’s no way. She’s putting him on, taking advantage of his inexperience, willing to risk losing a bet just for the pleasure of having him believe her. Regardless, he can't risk looking like a stick-in-the-mud by backing out.

 

She takes his hand, and a thrill goes through him. “Deal,” she agrees. “Plan what you’re going to say, Carlyle. You’ve got thirty seconds to fill.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Phillip sees how the other half lives - and is surprised.

“Hey.” Barnum quickly covers what he’s doing as Phillip enters their office. “Enjoy your rehearsal?”

Phillip pauses, the cane still dangling from his fingers. “How do you know I rehearsed?” he asks.

Barnum just grins. It’s a stupid question, really. The activities of this place are like blood flowing through Barnum’s veins: if the pulse changes, he’s the first to feel it. “I brought back your hat and cane,” Phillip adds unnecessarily. He lays them on the desk, hoping to catch a glimpse of what Barnum’s hiding, but it’s completely hidden beneath the unfortunate tome that contains their finances. “I didn’t think you’d want them in the costume room after what happened.”

  
“Good call.” Barnum watches him collapse behind his own desk, pushing a hand wearily through his hair. “Miss Wheeler is quite the drill sergeant, isn’t she?”

  
Phillip mutters under his breath. He hasn’t forgotten about their bet, but it’s not as easy as it sounds. How do you ask your boss to prove he can twist himself into improbable positions? “She showed me a few of the routines,” he admits. “I think I did all right. I’m just not used to it.”

“It’s hard work. I didn’t see it from the beginning, but from what I caught you did fantastic.”

  
Phillip shrugs, unwilling to admit how much the praise means to him. Barnum rocks back in his chair, observing his apprentice in silence. “What are you doing tonight?” he asks at length.

  
Phillip glances up. “What do you mean?” he asks, perhaps a bit defensively. He used to be engaged almost every night with parties or plays or bland flings to fill the emptiness. It’s not that he misses all that. He’s actually relieved to have it behind him. But he was unprepared for the fact that a pariah is less a social target than a person with a very empty calendar.

  
“I’ve been wanting you to meet Charity.” Barnum tips even further back, and Phillip bites back an injunction to be careful. “And she’s been wanting to meet you. Seeing as it’s getting late, I thought you could come by tonight for supper.”

  
He’s known P.T. Barnum for precisely nine days. He’s been marking the days of his freedom on the other side of the mental wall that kept him imprisoned for so long. And while he knows that Barnum is glad to have him around, he’s not sure if he counts as a friend or a colleague or just an associate. It’s hard to know when every friendly move could be the simple product of natural charm. And yet there’s something incredibly disarming about Barnum’s invitation and the frank, blunt, guileless way it’s presented.

  
Not at all the way his father would have presented it. Not the way any highbred gentleman would.

  
“I’d love to.” The words are spoken before Phillip can stop them, and why should he? He’s a bachelor living at the circus. If he goes to his residence now it will be to leftovers, which came from leftovers. And (he hates to admit this even to himself) he’s lonely. “Thank you,” he adds, cordially.

  
Barnum waves it off. His chair comes down on all fours with a thump and he stands, whisking his private project out from under the book and into his attaché. “Come on then,” he orders. “No more work today. We’ve got a family waiting on us.”

  
Phillip obeys. How can he not, with that offer?

  
They hail a carriage and climb in. Barnum gives an address that sounds surprisingly posh and they settle in as the carriage wheels begin to rattle. At first Phillip employs his best high-society small talk, unsure whether the conversation will stall in such close quarters. If it was up to him, it probably would.

  
But it’s not, and it doesn’t. Barnum is relentlessly at ease, every bit as animated confined in a carriage as he is in the middle of the ring, and Phillip can’t bring himself to stay tense. It’s too much fun to be drawn into his partner’s enthusiasm. He doesn’t even know what they’re talking about – Barnum will be in the middle of a passionate, spirited discourse and then abruptly change to a completely different subject – but it’s always engaging, always inventive.

  
The carriage draws to a halt.

  
“Oh.” Phillip looks out the window. “I didn’t expect…”

  
“What, too small?” Barnum looks past him.

  
Phillip grins. Any bigger and Barnum’s house would be its own state. “I just didn’t think anyone could live like this on a circus income,” he shoots back.

  
“Not on _your_ circus income.” With that jibe Barnum gets out of the carriage.

  
The approach to the house is long and broad, lit in the twilight by a procession of bright lamps. Phillip’s reservation returns with every step he takes, more and more aware that he is entering a sanctum not his own. He lets Barnum usher him in through the massive double doors, standing awkwardly in the foyer with his hat in his hand. The valet takes it gently from his fingers and waits for his coat. It’s all very comfortable and impressive.

  
All Phillip can think is that he doesn’t have any of this anymore.

  
“Charity.” Barnum’s fine strong voice echoes in the halls, which for all their grandiosity are homey and warm. “I’m home.”

  
“Phin?” Phillip automatically turns toward the musical voice. It is followed by the sound of a light tread, and then Charity Barnum emerges from one of the halls, her golden hair shining in the lamplight. She looks young and bright and joyful, and suddenly Phillip is abashed. Without hesitation Barnum goes forward, drawing his wife into his arms. She lets him kiss her, laughing a little as he whispers something in her ear. Then she turns to Phillip, smiling radiantly as she holds out her hand.

  
“Is this him, Phin?”

  
Phillip takes the proffered hand. He brings it to his lips and kisses it, bowing slightly. Charity laughs again. “You’ve brought home a real gentleman,” she teases her husband. “That’s one more than I usually get.”

  
Their gazes meet, parrying one another in an old joke, and Phillip understands now the bright look in Barnum’s eyes when he speaks of his wife. He clears his throat as he releases her hand. “Phillip Carlyle, ma’am,” he says hoarsely, thinking it’s not fair to beset one man with two exceptional women in one day. “At your service.”

  
“Call me Charity. Please, feel at home here.” Charity’s words are not the pretensions of his mother. She means it, wants him to be at ease, the same as Barnum makes it hard for him to be stuffy at the circus. “I’m glad Phineas brought you tonight.”

  
“So am I.” Phillip blushes a little at his own honesty. Judging by Charity’s expression, however, it was the right thing to say.

  
She turns and goes to the foot of the grand staircase, folding her hands on the bannister. “I must warn you,” she says archly, looking back at him, “that what I am about to do will completely destroy any peace you might have had tonight.”

 

Phillip raises his eyebrows questioningly. Barnum has positioned himself near his wife, and there’s anticipation in every line of his body. Phillip can’t guess what is about to happen.

  
Then Charity calls out, “Caroline, Helen, your father’s home!”

  
There are twin shrieks from overhead, and a thump as something is dropped. Phillip startles at the sudden pounding of feet high above him. The footsteps hit the staircase and two young girls race down, hair bouncing on their shoulders. As soon as they see their father, waiting at the bottom with a broad grin, they both cry Daddy! at the top of their lungs.

  
Barnum catches one in his arms and turns to absorb the force of the other on his back, coming away with two children clinging to his neck. There’s not much coherency in the words being passed between the three of them, but Phillip gathers that this is an occasion for unmitigated joy. And would seem to be every night.

  
“What _took_ you so long?” the smaller of the two demands, dangling from her father’s neck like a benign albatross. “We _waited_ and _waited_ and _waited_ …”

  
“Oh, come on, it wasn’t _that_ long.” Barnum turns his face toward the taller child on his back; his cheek is met with a thoroughly affectionate kiss. “Was it?”

  
“ _Too_ long,” this child asserts, giggling as Barnum’s stubble tickles her smooth cheek. “Daddy, you’re all rough!”

  
“Excuse me, I’ll go shave.” Barnum ruffles their hair, drawing squeals of delighted protest. “Chairy, look at all the extra hair I’ve grown in just five minutes. And at my age I thought I was supposed to be losing.”

  
“Nope.” The taller daughter takes advantage of her position to check the back of his head. “It’s all there, Daddy.”

  
“Promise?”

  
“Promise.”

  
“Then get down, my back is breaking.” With an exaggerated groan Barnum deposits his elder daughter gently on the floor. He cups the younger to his chest and she lets go of his neck, sliding down to attach herself to his leg. Her chin rests just above his hip, her enraptured gaze fixed on his face. The older girl snuggles into his other side. Charity is watching all this with an affectionate and highly amused look.

  
And suddenly they all seem to remember Phillip.

  
“Caroline, Helen, this is Phillip Carlyle from the circus.” Barnum points to the older, then to the younger. “Phillip, these are Caroline and Helen, my daughters.”

  
“Pleased to meet you,” Phillip says, bowing gallantly. They both giggle a little, exchanging a glance.

  
“Hello, Phillip.” Helen, golden-haired like her mother, stares up at him with genuine interest, her arms still twined around her father’s leg. “What makes _you_ different?”

  
Phillip laughs uneasily, glancing up at Barnum. “Ah, I guess nothing much,” he says. Then he turns his gaze back on the girl. “What makes _you_ different?”

  
“ _I_ don’t think Daddy’s crazy,” she chirps, giggling against his hip. Well. A perceptive little girl, then.

  
“Well, neither do I,” Phillip shoots back, mostly just to see what she’ll say.

  
Helen beams at him. “Then you’re the same different as me!” She turns to Caroline, bouncing slightly. “What makes you different, Carrie?”

  
Caroline looks up at him through her long lashes. She’s an extraordinarily pretty child, a brunette in her father’s image. But her eyes are darkened slightly by something familiar to Phillip, something that bespeaks awareness acquired painfully early. “I don’t think I would fit in anywhere,” she answers quietly, watching him closely, almost suspiciously, for a reaction.

  
Her tone moves him. Phillip kneels, beckoning her closer. She takes a step or two forward, more curious than cautious despite her expression. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he half-whispers, making her lean in to hear him. “I don’t fit in either.” He punctuates his last word with an encouraging smile. “ _Yet_.”

  
After a moment, she flutters a genuine smile at him in return.

  
Then she turns to her mother. “Can we feed him?” she asks.

  
Helen darts forward. “I get to sit next to him,” she announces, tugging at his hand. Caroline turns her large brown eyes to his. Pleading. How did he get himself into this?

  
“Now, girls.” Barnum comes forward. “ _Everyone_ can sit next to Phillip. He’ll just have to sit on top of the table, right in the middle.”

  
“He can’t do that!” Helen protests, her nose wrinkling.

  
“Why not?”

  
“That’s where the roast goes!”

  
It’s like the final line of a comedy routine. Phillip’s not even sure why, but he’s almost crying with laughter by the time they all regain control, and then there’s no point even pretending he feels tense anymore. He is ushered to the dining room by the girls, who proceed to show him how to set the table for company. Charity keeps peeking in and making gentle corrections. Barnum has disappeared upstairs, and when he comes trotting back down he’s dressed to relax.

  
The Barnums have an excellent cook, and Phillip feels truly satisfied for the first time in almost two weeks. Helen startles him by belching during dessert, and then Caroline belches louder, and then Barnum…Well, long story short, Charity is the one who puts a stop to it, and when she apologises to Phillip with a roll of her eyes he realises he’s witnessing business as usual. It’s a luxury he’s rarely had in his uptight world, and what with his inhibitions being loosened by good wine it’s probably a blessing the burping challenge never reached him.

  
“I’m sorry again, Phillip.” Charity is tidying up the last of the detritus from dinner, having dismissed the servants for the night. She still has that exasperated-fond expression on her face that he suspects appears quite often. “It’s not easy raising three children under the age of forty-five. A compliment in India, my foot."

  
Barnum has gone upstairs to put the girls to bed. There was a considerable fuss raised about that, but in the end Barnum got his way. It’s consoling to know that Phillip isn’t the only person in the world who can be persuaded by his inexplicable charm. “Don’t worry about it,” he assures her again. “I haven’t had this much fun in…I don’t know when. I’m grateful you were able to accommodate me,” he adds, for the sake of good manners, although he means it.

  
“Accommodate you.” Charity laughs softly, wiping a plate with a dishtowel. “You sound just like me twenty years ago.” She eyes him. “I knew your mother a little, back in the day; she and my mother used to keep company. I don’t imagine she’s enthusiastic about your career change.”

  
“She’s…ambivalent.” Phillip shrugs, as if the situation isn’t a knife permanently embedded in his side. “It’s all right. She’ll get used to it.”

  
Charity doesn’t ask about his father. He’s immensely grateful for that, seeing as there are few subjects in the world that unnerve him more. “Well, Phin is glad you’ve joined him,” she says. “What he’s doing isn’t easy, and it’s not natural for him to admit he needs help.”

  
“No, I suppose he’s always been pretty self-sufficient.”

  
“Mm.” Charity rubs idle circles over the plate with the towel. “How much has Phin told you of his story?”

  
“Not much. I’ve only been hired nine days.” Phillip plays with a discarded napkin-ring, spinning it deftly between his fingers. “He did tell me his father was a tailor.”

  
“He was. A very good one, but unfortunately not very successful.” Charity stacks the plate on top of the others. “However, he did manage to keep a few high-bred clients, my father among them.”

  
Phillip’s eyebrows shoot up. “It wasn’t as awkward as it sounds,” Charity chuckles. “I first met Phineas when we were nine. He was as incorrigible then as he is now. He was a tagalong with his father in those days, and he had a way of making me laugh…” She shakes her head, an amused look on her face. “He was forever getting me in trouble with my parents.”

  
So it’s a long-standing Barnum habit, then.

  
“Of course, my father didn’t approve of me consorting with the tailor’s boy.” Charity lifts the plates into a cabinet, and Phillip marvels at her composure as she discusses her family. “That was one reason he sent me away to finishing school when I was eleven. It was the last I saw of Phineas for thirteen years. We wrote back and forth all the time – in secret, naturally – although I’ll never understand how he contrived to receive my letters.”

  
“Why? Didn’t his father approve either?”

  
Charity looks at him. “His father died when Phineas was twelve,” she says. “That left him an orphan. Phin was homeless until his sixteenth year, when he signed up with the railroad. And even then he didn’t have an easy life. He had to move with his job, and it was dangerous, and he was forever trying to scrape together pennies in the hopes of one day returning for me.”

  
She shrugs. “There are things he still won’t tell me about those days. A railroad camp is rough, and the streets are rougher. Phineas is the gentlest man alive, but I suspect there were things he was forced to do that haunt him to this day, things he was forced to endure, and he’d rather just forget they ever happened.”

  
The napkin-ring is forgotten in Phillip’s hands. He knows intellectually, of course, that people can be homeless, knows that some people are, but they’ve always been like the unnamed, nonspeaking townspeople of his plays who populate the background unnoticed. He considers them unimportant, and uninteresting, and in a way at fault. This new information…this doesn’t fit.

  
He can’t pity a man like P.T. Barnum.

  
_New money,_ his father sneered when they first heard of the Barnum Circus. _He won’t last. He’s only come this far because he married that Hallett girl._ And then, in a somber tone, _Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and trash to the gutter. That’s the way of life, Phillip, and it can’t be changed by a damn fool with his damned pretensions._

  
It’s the sound of Barnum’s quick heavy tread that breaks Phillip out of his thoughts. He watches Barnum go to his wife and kiss her cheek, the lingering effects of fatherly affection glowing on his face. He looks tired but not dragged out, and Charity pats his chest fondly. “Don’t stay up too late, you two,” she says. “Just remember, Phin, your apprentice needs his rest.”

  
“I know.” Barnum runs his fingers affectionately through Charity’s iridescent waves. “The girls are asking for you. They want the song.”

  
“Not from you?” Charity questions, slipping from his arms to fold the dishtowel and hang it to dry.

  
“I tried, but my voice is hoarse.” Barnum nods at Phillip. “Want a drink?”

  
“I’d love one.” Phillip rises and gives Charity a slight bow. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Barn – Charity,” he corrects at her look. “You have a truly lovely home.”

  
“Thank you. Please come back anytime.” Charity smiles at his polite nod. “I mean that. The girls are crazy about you, and living at the circus can’t be very comfortable. And this house is…” She glances wryly at Barnum. “…on the large side. We can always use the help in filling it up.”

  
With that she leaves them, taking a candle with her to light her way.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Phillip sees things he's never seen before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank all the lovely people who have left comments and kudos, and who continue to follow this story; you are my inspiration, and you make writing in this fandom such an enjoyable experience!
> 
> We're almost there, folks!

“So.” Barnum studies Phillip with a hint of amusement. “Just what did you two highbrows talk about while I was gone?”

“Nothing much.” Phillip shrugs, hoping his distress is not evident. “She told me you’re incorrigible, among other things.”

  
“Nothing you didn’t already know, I’m sure.”

  
“I had my suspicions.”

  
“Don’t knock it till you try it.” Barnum nods for Phillip to accompany him. Phillip follows him through the cavernous halls into a sprawling, yet surprisingly cozy study. Barnum opens a cabinet and takes out an expensive brand of whiskey that Phillip has often seen in his own father’s study. He has the feeling he should be impressed, and yet the whole time the word _homeless_ echoes in the back of his head like the frantic heartbeat of a dying animal.

  
Barnum pours them each a glass and hands one over. He seems to be waiting for Phillip’s reaction. Phillip swirls the liquid unthinkingly, an expert motion of appraisal that has developed over many years of indulgence. He makes a noise of approval, to which Barnum inclines his head.

  
He feels dissociated from reality. This is not the Barnum from the circus. This is a man who has drawn all the trappings of high society close about himself, hiding himself like Adam from his own nakedness. Phillip wishes Charity hadn’t told him about her husband’s past. Now when he looks at him all he can see is a skinny boy in rags, needle and thread in hand, eyes too large for his face, and he wonders…

  
Do homeless people smile?

  
“I have to grab something.” Barnum fumbles in his attaché, tossing several sheets of paper down on a side table. Phillip resists the urge to crane his neck. Those are the same papers Barnum was hiding earlier. “I’ll be back in a minute. Make yourself comfortable.”

  
Barnum sets his drink down and strides out of the room. A drop or two of amber liquid slops over the edge, staining the edge of the papers. Phillip can hear the mantle clock ticking in the silence. Slowly, he sets down his own drink and goes over to the side table. Drawing his handkerchief out of his pocket, he pats at the spilled whiskey, eyes darting over the top paper.

  
His hands still. He’s not sure what he expected, but this is not it.

  
Barnum comes striding back in, a case in one hand and a small colourful tin in the other. Phillip straightens. “What’s that?” he asks, motioning at the papers. His voice almost sounds normal.

  
Barnum sets the case down. “Oh, just a few sketches I put together this afternoon,” he says, and his offhand tone is somewhat ruined by an underlying current of excitement. “What do you think?”

  
What is he _supposed_ to think? Phillip picks up the papers. Barnum's style is strong, bold, happily married to charcoal, and touched by a hint of the whimsical. Sketch after sketch depicts Phillip and Anne, sometimes one or the other, sometimes both, practising in the ring, and he’s never seen himself in this light, the light in which Barnum apparently sees him.

  
Barnum looks over his shoulder. The top page is a depiction of Anne with her arms flung out to either side, looking over at Phillip with a coy smile. Phillip remembers that moment, coming as it did like a lightning strike against his chest. “See what I mean about her train?” the man says, pointing out the addition he’s made to her costume. “It would fall so much better this way. Not that she wears it much during actual performances, but…”

  
It would be a beautiful complement to her form. But that’s not what has caught Phillip’s eye. “What am _I_ wearing?” he asks, staring at the images of himself. Each sketch shows him in a progressively more flamboyant costume, a mimicry of Barnum’s but with a different cut. The tails in the back fall away sharply from the front, cut squarely above his hips to expose tight pants and stylish boots. It’s Barnum and yet it’s Phillip, and he just wonders if there’s anything his partner can’t do, or if it’s possible to be born with an infinite capacity for creativity.

  
“Do you like it?” The excitement in Barnum’s voice is unmistakable now, boyish and naïve in its intensity. He snatches the papers from Phillip’s hand and sits in one of the armchairs, dragging the side table over in front of him. He pops opens the colourful tin, labelled _Caroline_ in a petite scrawl, and plucks a red crayon from inside. “See, this is what I’m thinking…”

  
Phillip watches, mesmerised, as Barnum begins to add colour in bold, playful strokes. Red, black, yellow…With every addition the image of himself comes to life, until he can almost imagine how it would feel to spin and cavort the way he does in Barnum’s sketches.

  
Almost.

  
“This isn’t me.” He speaks before he’s aware of what he will say, but maybe that’s the most honest way to do it. “I mean,” he stutters as Barnum looks at him in surprise, “it _looks_ like me, it’s a great likeness, but…”

  
“It _is_ you.” Barnum speaks with the same utter conviction he brings to bear on every subject. “Trust me.”

  
“Trust has nothing to do with it. I’m a playwright, Barnum.”

“A playwright with lightning-fast reflexes.”

  
“Quick reflexes do not a showman make,” Phillip retorts.

  
“No, I’ll do that.” Barnum flashes him a grin.

 

Phillip turns away, retrieving his drink, and throws it back in one burning toss. It’s been a long time since he drank alcohol for the taste; the bite is what he’s after, the blurred vision and the slurred speech, and the way memories lose their coherency after two or three rounds.

  
“I’ve already done more than I should in joining the circus,” he says once the whiskey has settled. “I can’t appear in the ring on top of it. Trust me, Barnum, it's a bad idea.”

“I disagree.”

  
“On what possible basis? I’m not like you. I can’t do what you do.”

  
“I could _never_ ,” Barnum says, and his tone is earnest, “move as fast as you did on that bar.”

  
“Why are you so obsessed with that?” Phillip turns, gesturing with his glass, and he’s displeased to find that the generous drink has absolutely no effect on him. “Is there something freakish about me you just can’t wait to show off, and this is your excuse to do it?”

 

The dangerous question tumbles out of him before he can stop it, and then he'd do anything to take it back.

  
“Why on earth would you think that?” Barnum asks, genuinely flabbergasted and, God help him, offended.

  
Does the man ever step back and _look_ at his life? Phillip is about to open his mouth with a blistering retort, one he already regrets as it burns the tip of his tongue, when from above them comes the entrancing voice of a songbird.

  
_Every night I lie in bed,_

_The brightest colours fill my head,_

_A million dreams are keeping me awake..._

  
Barnum lifts his eyes to the ceiling, to where his wife trills softly away above them. “No one sings like she does,” he murmurs. A warm smile gentles his lips. “No one could.”

  
Phillip lowers his gaze. Tears prick his eyes, mourning a long-ago past when such soft voices were not an impossible memory. “I should go,” he mutters, shifting his feet, his defensive anger suddenly dull and listless. “I’ve kept you from your family long enough.”

  
Barnum’s gaze falls back to him, and all the distress has gone out of it. “What? Don’t be silly,” the man objects. “It’s not as if you stormed our castle.”

  
“Barnum…”

  
“P.T.,” the man fires back, cocking one eyebrow. “In your words.”

  
Phillip manages a weak smile. Barnum grabs the case lying at his feet and opens it. “Now,” he says jovially, but with a hint of steel, “we can do this one of two ways. Care to guess which those are?”

  
Phillip watches as he whips a measuring tape out of the bag with a flourish. “What’s that?” he questions. Of course he knows what it is, but he can’t imagine…

  
“What you think it is.” Barnum gets up, letting the tape unravel toward the carpet. “You know the drill, you didn’t make those suits of yours yourself.”

  
Phillip backpedals so fast he almost knocks over a vase. “You can’t,” he bursts out, but he can't begin to explain his objection. “You…can’t.”

  
“Oh really?” Barnum plants his hands on his hips. “I’ll have you know, I’m a first-rate tailor.”

  
“I _know_ that.” Phillip stares at him, appalled. For a horrifying moment Barnum is a bedraggled tailor in patchwork clothes, two gaunt little girls hovering at his elbows, ready to assist. He never cared before. He never cared about the fate of his servants, or his hires, or perhaps worse than that he simply never thought about it, never thought about what they’d have to go home to.

  
Never thought about the home they might not have. Just sat in his warm house or in posh bars, drinking himself slowly to death, as if living his life well wouldn't have done them better.

  
He takes a deep breath. “You’re my boss,” he says, which is almost none of what he is thinking. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”

  
“Is that all?” Barnum rolls his eyes. “The prescribed roles of the classes? Geez, Lord Phillip, don’t lift that glass too high, you might strain yourself. It doesn’t _matter_ , man. I’m good at this, you’re not. That’s all.”

  
That’s not all. He abhors the thought of Barnum kneeling before him, partly because it would come so naturally to both of them. He abhors it because Barnum doesn’t even see how he’s debasing himself. He abhors it because he can remember being a little boy who felt everything, every blow and every joy in every extremity, and then all he remembers is…numbness. Numbness that went on for a long, long time, until he’d almost forgotten how it felt to have arms and legs and a brain and a heart.

 

The feeling is starting to return.

  
Barnum’s brow crinkles in a frown. “Hey, Phillip.” He comes forward, hands still on his hips, tape measure curling along the length of his leg. He sounds genuinely concerned, and Phillip almost laughs at the irony. “I’m not going to force you into the ring. That’s your call. But I’m not going to stop telling you that you have talent. Do I need you in the office, baiting the upper class? Yes. Absolutely. But it would be a waste of God’s good gift to keep you confined there. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a costume waiting for when you’re ready to use it?”

  
He dangles the tape measure, the same way he’d dangled the cane earlier. And suddenly Phillip _can_ see it: he, himself, dressed in that absurd red-gold-black costume, dancing like a madman to the cheers of the crowd, caught in the surge and swell of the tide around him. He can feel the adrenaline pump through him in time to his pulse, new life jolting through him with every strike of his foot against the ground. The way it did for those few brief seconds in the bar, when he’d surprised not only Barnum but himself.

  
Wouldn’t it be nice?

  
_Yes_ , whispers a little voice inside him. _It would._

  
And just like that Phillip is done being an ass, done digging in his heels and braying at Barnum to back off. Or, well, almost. He sets his glass down on the nearest surface. “All right, P.T.,” he says, trying to sound smooth, to throw off the objections he can’t voice, to hide them. “ _Quid pro quo_. I’ve heard a rumour that you’re pretty flexible. Not that I believe a word of it, of course.” He crosses his arms, arching his brow at his employer, who looks nothing more or less than intrigued. “Anne claimed you can walk bent over backward on your hands and feet. Prove it, and I’ll let you make me a costume.”

  
Barnum grins. Phillip doesn’t like the look of it. It looks too much like victory. “You gotta learn the fine art of cutting a deal, Phil,” he says, taking a seat on the floor. He plants his hands behind his head, his voice straining as he arches. “At this rate you’re not going to have a penny left to your name.”

  
Phillip spends the entire measuring session with a red face and Barnum’s insufferable smirk in his vision.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Phillip finds out what it's like to lose a circus bet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story began as a quick one-shot. Five chapters and ten thousand words later...

Two days later is their next rehearsal. Anne is busy chalking her hands as Phillip approaches her, fully prepared to sink to his knees and beg. Barnum stands nearby, talking over the lion act with the Lord of Leeds. “King of the jungle,” Phillip hears his partner fret. “There are two of them. But I can’t say _kings_ , you can’t have two kings at once, it doesn’t make sense…”

  
His companion says something indistinguishable. “Really? You think so?” is Barnum’s response. “Well, maybe…”

  
Anne nods a greeting at Phillip, and there’s telling laughter in her eyes. “I’ll do anything.” Phillip keeps his voice low, hoping not to be overheard. “I’ll pay anything. Just please, don’t make me do this.”

  
“Five minutes to curtain, Carlyle.” Anne gives her hands one last smart pat. “Break a leg.”

  
“Anne, I _can’t_.”

  
“Hm, and I thought a gentleman never went back on his word.” Anne tosses the chalk back in the bag resting on her hip. She’s teasing but serious, and as she cocks one shapely brow at him he knows he’s done for. “Hugging P.T Barnum is nothing. Wait till someone dares you to make out with Walter.”

  
With that she walks away, taking with her his heart and the last shreds of his dignity.

  
Phillip trails the last of the performers into the ring, obeying the pull of Barnum’s authoritative voice. Everybody else takes up a position around their ringmaster, listening as he begins to give instructions. Phillip keeps going, quietly weaving through various Oddities, ignoring the growing sense of eyes on his back.

  
Barnum continues to speak, oblivious to his approaching apprentice. “I think we’ve integrated the lions fairly well,” he says, moving his hands animatedly, in motion even as he stands still. “A bigger concern is Tom’s horse. It’s gotten a bit too cozy with the audience lately, and I’m afraid it will scare the children if we don’t…”

  
His voice trails off as Phillip steps up. His expression goes from friendly to inquisitive to startled in one fell swoop, and because Phillip doesn’t want to see what will happen to it next he just pushes into Barnum’s personal space. He’s awkward at this, and there’s a jostling of elbows and ribs before he gets himself into position. A moment of torturous silence reigns.

  
Then, tentatively…

  
“Phillip?”

  
“I want to thank you for bringing me here,” Phillip bursts out, his heart hammering frantically above the maelstrom of his stomach. “It’s an honour, and one I don’t take lightly.”

  
Barnum sounds like he’s about to say something else. Phillip rushes on, determined not to give him a chance. “You rescued me from mediocrity, and for that I am eternally grateful. You’re, uh, an inspiration to me, as I’m sure you are to many, many people…”

  
How many seconds have passed? Anne sidles over enough to catch his eye; one hand is pressed to her mouth, and her shoulders are shaking. Perfect. “Being your apprentice is an experience I treasure,” Phillip continues helplessly, “and I look forward to a long and illustrious partnership.” What a lie. If he gets out of here without being burned at the stake it will be a miracle. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  
The arena is silent except for the sound of his own voice. He fumbles for more to say, but his mind is blank. Does Barnum think Phillip has finally snapped under the weight of alcohol and social declension? Or does he agree with Phillip’s father that he’s too soft and too sensitive, falling headlong after the first insecurity that assaults him?

  
As he desperately tries to find something else to say to fill the unbelievably awkward silence, Anne makes a quick slicing motion with her hand. Time’s up. Phillip leaps back, and that’s when his suspender clip snags on Barnum’s watch chain.

  
It pops off his waistband, stretching absurdly between them like a birth cord. It was bad before, but now they’re attached by his suspender, and this might actually be the most mortifying moment of his life.

  
“Okay, hold on.” Barnum’s fingers bump his as they both dive for the tangled section. “Just a minute…it’s okay, Phil, I’ve got it.”

  
“No, it’s not…”

  
“Just hang on, I have it…” Phillip turns his face away, raking his hands through his hair, and Barnum makes a soothing noise. “Hey, look, it happens,” he says, and is the man actually _comforting_ him?

  
“No, it doesn’t happen!” Phillip’s voice has gone high and loud, but he no longer cares. “We’re joined at the _suspenders!_ ” He grips his hair at the roots. “I lost a bet, okay?”

  
There’s an impossibly long silence. “You lost a…?” Barnum repeats, low and slow. He gestures between them. “You mean, this…”

  
There's a long, drawn-out pause. Then Phillip nods once, miserably.

  
Without warning the entire arena fills with a tidal wave of hilarity, sweeping over them again and again, merciless and overwhelming. Phillip can only stand helplessly amid the performers’ mirth as Barnum shakes with uncontrollable laughter, clutching Phillip’s shoulders for support. The suspender trembles between them. Anne darts forward to fumble with the mess, little giggles tumbling like pearls from her lips.

  
“Who the hell thought _that_ one up?” Charles hoots over the uproar, grinning from ear to ear. “Whoever it was, I’ll buying them drinks!”

  
“Oh, Mr. Barnum,” Lettie gushes, weaving through the guffawing performers to throw her arms around her ringmaster. “I can’t _tell_ you how grateful I am that you rescued me! How _ever_ will I repay you?”

  
“That’s so kind, Lettie, but really, no gratitude necessary.” Throwing an arm around her, Barnum grins at his apprentice as they are finally separated. “I’m accepting hugs, though, if anyone’s interested!”

  
“Oh God,” Phillip groans as a cheer goes up. "Why..."

  
“To Phillip Carlyle, the best sport in the city,” Barnum shouts, and as another cheer rises Phillip feels himself flushing again, but this time it is from an emotion distinctly more pleasant. He catches Anne's eye, and she smiles, and he thinks, thank you.

  
“Bigger man than me,” Vasily adds in his ponderous Slavic accent, and as Anne and Charles start to haggle over the drinks Phillip lets out a small huff of laughter. It feels nice. And the world doesn’t come to an end. So he tries it again.

If anyone asks, he'll just tell them it's part of his training.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, an ending as fluffy as Lettie's beard. ;)
> 
> Thank you all for your kind attention to this story! You are amazing!! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from The Greatest Showman song "The Other Side": "So trade that typical for something colourful/And if it's crazy, live a little crazy..."


End file.
